


bold as a street light

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dirty Talk, Emotionally Awkward Sex, F/M, Recreational Drug Use, Uncomfortable Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time the two of you have killed the joint, there's a comfortable haze over your mind. You're not so angry anymore. It's nice to be able to let go of that for a while, and not feel so wound tight with it. Cronus's eyes have slipped to half-lidded, his fins fluttering gently as he breathes. When you pull your shirt off he blinks at you a few times and says, "Wow."</p>
            </blockquote>





	bold as a street light

**Author's Note:**

> This started out being inspired by [this pic by kinomatika](http://kinomatika.tumblr.com/post/44605904357) but then I fear I sort of ruined the mood. :x

_Sit down on the corner, just a little climb_  
 _When I make my money, got to get my dime_  
 _Sit down with her baby, wind is full of trash_  
 _She bold as a street light, dark and sweet as hash_  
—Joan Osborne, "St. Teresa"

He doesn't look up from his guitar when you walk in. You come to a stop just outside of arm's reach and bend forward. "Hey," you say, sharp enough that he can't pretend not to hear you, and Cronus finally looks up from his guitar. Then he doesn't look back down again, because he's a predictable little shit and he can see down your shirt when you stand this way. You have his attention, more or less. "You have lighter?" you ask.

"Huh?" he says. He looks up at you stupidly. He _should_ have a portable ignition apparatus for those cigarettes he refuses to actually smoke, and you're not going through with this if you both have to be sober for it. You wait, and keep staring at him, and he says, "Yeah, uh, pretty sure."

You beckon. He really is an idiot. "Give."

He leers. "Ask nicely."

You cross your arms and lean forward a little further, so you're pushing your tits up and out. He's so _easy_. "Make it worth your while," you croon.

"Hey, a guy can hardly turn down a request like that," Cronus says. He sets his guitar aside, careful with it the way he's never been with people, and digs in his jeans pocket. You sink to your knees and you can see how that makes him stupider, how his eyes widen. "So what you got for me, kitten?"

"Us," you correct him, and snag the lighter out of his hand when he tries to play keep-away with it. He's not fast enough to keep up with you.

You take the joint you rolled earlier out from behind your ear and light it up. He's watching you like your mouth is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, and you play that up a little more—pursing your lips as you hold the first drag, letting him see a little flicker of tongue as you exhale. The sharp green scent of nip is soothing, makes you feel already less like destroying him. You don't really want to do him harm. Not much. That wasn't the urge you came here to satisfy.

"Come on and share, babe," he says.

"I'm going to get you so high you stop talking, and then I'm going to use you for your bulge," you tell him, in your own dialect, so he just squints at you stupidly while he tries to untangle the words. You take another deep drag and hold it while the calm settles through you, then lean forward and exhale against his mouth.

"Whoa," he says, and coughs a little.

You sneer. "Too much?"

His fins flare out like you've offended his dignity. "Nowhere near, sweetheart. Bring it on." _So_ easy.

You fit your mouth to his on the next one, and let him have the entire breath. You leave a smudge of your lipstick on his mouth when you pull back, rust red on his narrow, pinched lips. He holds it longer than you thought he would, and then the smoke trickles back out of his mouth when he lets go.

"Damn," he says. "That's some pretty intense stuff."

You smile sweetly and hold the joint up to his mouth so he can have some more.

By the time the two of you have killed the joint, there's a comfortable haze over your mind. You're not so angry anymore. It's nice to be able to let go of that for a while, and not feel so wound tight with it. Cronus's eyes have slipped to half-lidded, his fins fluttering gently as he breathes. When you pull your shirt off he blinks at you a few times and says, "Wow."

You lean into him, pressing your tits up against his chest—and it's a nice chest, a nice body, solid with muscle—and pull your thoughts together enough to use the dialect he'll understand. "We fuck now," you tell him.

He gapes at you like a fish out of water and you have to giggle. "Wow, yeah, sure, yeah," he says. "I mean, course you'd want—"

"Hush," you say, putting your hand over his mouth. He goes quiet and just nods. "Better."

When you take your hand away to go for the buttons of his jeans, you kiss him to make sure he doesn't try talking again. The smell of nip clings to his skin and hair, comforting, encouraging. He's reaching up under your skirt now, his fingertips finding the thin fabric of your panties, and you think his hand might be trembling as he traces the ridge of your sheath. You nod, letting go of his jeans so you can hike up your skirt and tug your panties down. He strokes your sheath with those nervous fingers and it starts to dilate, your bulge swelling and starting to extend. Cronus whines.

"That's right, play with me, get me hot," you say. You don't really care if he can understand you at this point. You're not doing this for him. "Tease me until I'm dripping wet and then stuff me full of your nasty seadweller bulge."

He must be able to understand at least a little of that, from the way he shivers and his breath hitches. "Damn, you really know how to go for what you want, huh?" he says.

You tug your panties the rest of the way off and stuff them in his mouth. He makes a stunned noise but doesn't even try to stop you. "Want you _hush_ ," you tell him. His fins are flushing deep purple, and that makes your nook throb.

He lies back along the length of the couch and crosses his wrists above his head, raising an eyebrow at you. Disheveled and blushing, wearing traces of your lipstick, your panties in his mouth, his pants half undone and his bulge trying to squirm free. Like a toy for you to use.

"Yes," you say. "Sexy, like that."

He squirms.

You straddle his thighs and undo the last buttons on his fly. His shorts are soaking wet, the fabric straining against his bulge. You pop the button right off and tear them open down the seam. Cronus writhes, making a desperate noise in his throat.

It's true, about seadweller bulges. He has a pair of them, sleek and smooth, moving together. Either one separately would be a little smaller than yours, but both of them? You lick your lips. He makes another helpless noise, and rocks his hips up.

"You want to shove those nasty things down my throat, make me choke on them?" you ask, trailing your fingers up the underside of one of them. He groans. "No, you don't even care, do you? Just want somewhere wet you can put them." You inch forward, lining up your hips with his. "And I want something big and thick to fill me up."

When you press down and take him, you can't help moaning yourself. It feels good, being stretched like that, being _full_. The pressure focuses you, draws your attention down into the clutch and release of your nook. Beneath you Cronus is trembling, gasping for breath, staring up at you like he can barely believe this is really happening.

"You don't get lucky like this very often, do you?" you ask, and he blushes harder, so he must have understood you that time. "You need to learn when to just shut up and put out." There's a nasty little thrill in being able to say that, in knowing that even if he gets the gist of it he's not going to argue right now, because he wants you to use his body just as much as you want to do it. You reach down and curl a hand around your own bulge, jerking it while he pumps inside you. "Ah, feels so good like that, stuffed so full—you can barely move, can you? Can barely fit both of them up my nook at the same time."

Cronus whimpers, arching his back like he's trying to push deeper into you, and you lose track of what you were saying. You don't need to talk yourself into it anymore. Between the sweetness of being high, the heavy pressure of your nook being so full, and the way you're stroking your own bulge, you're finally losing yourself into the sensation. You can just _feel_ , let your body do what it needs, drawing down in a tightening spiral until the tension finally snaps and you come, spilling out over your fingers, rippling around his bulges, splattering deep red all over his belly and his ridden-up shirt.

You ride it out until the last aftershock is done, until you feel wrung out and wobbly all the way through. When you pull yourself up off him, Cronus reaches for you, growling in frustration.

You smack his hand away. "You finish," you say. He's bigger than you, stronger, and you'd make him sorry later if he got too demanding now but it's better to just not go that way. Give him a reason to want what you want. "Show me."

His fins snap wide and his lips peel back like he could bare his teeth, but he doesn't reach for you again. You stare him down, making it a dare. He reaches up and pulls your panties out of his mouth, damp and lavender-stained with his spit, then drops that hand to his bulges. He's still staring at you when he starts to stroke, wrapping your panties around his length, rubbing wet lace against flesh.

"Filthy," you tell him. You can tell he wants to be praised for it. He wants to hear you're impressed. "Highblood pervert."

"Yeah," he says, stroking faster, watching you, "that's what you like? Y'wanna see what you can reduce me to, huh?"

"You make yourself shit just fine without my help," you say, fast and slurred enough that you know he won't be able to follow, and then slowly, clearly, "Want you come."

"Fuck," he says, a needy, thin whine. One of his fangs catches against his lower lip. "Yeah, good, sounds so good, babe, lemme hear you beg."

You won't beg him, but you can make demands, and he can think whatever he wants. "Do it," you say. "You come."

Cronus's back arches off the couch and he makes one more growling, hungry noise, and then he's coming, painting his own chest and stomach with his fluids to mix with yours. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, his whole body going limp with satisfaction. The sharp salt of genetic material fills the room, overpowering the lingering herbal smell of the nip.

You climb to your feet on almost-steady legs, and he watches you blearily. "That was good," he says. He smiles at you, like you're in on some kind of secret together now. "We should do it again sometime."

"Mmm." You pick up your shirt. You don't want the panties back. You probably will do this again at some point. "Not call me," you tell him as you turn toward the door. "I call you."


End file.
